NOW BOARDING FOR CITIES REFLECTION, MEMORY AND THE VALLEY OF DEATH!

For some reason, I always believed that I would flame out like a streaking comet, not stuttering like a death star!

I rarely speak of my past.  As with a lot of people that grew up in my generation, as a rule, my story does not stand out so much anyway.  No matter what my lot has been, I have known many that would trade history in a heartbeat and out of compassion I would if I could have.  Comparing childhood traumas and insinuating extreme hardship was never my forte'.  All of my life though, I was always honest enough to say if asked but, there are far to many subjects that I just never wanted to revisit again, ever.  My personality has always dictated that I get up, get over it and move forward. One simply must ready oneself for the next blow quickly.

I was born into a family of complete dysfunction and total chaos.  From as far back as I can recall there was a "forced" disconnect from the implied norms of those days in my little eyes.  TV shows of the time displayed happy little homes, where the children were taught and protected,  loved and appreciated, I had real honest and confusing perspectives with the likes of  "Leave it to Beaver" and "Father knows best" and "Andy Griffith".  I had an alcoholic father, a manipulative, suicidal mother and my only saving grace was my Grandmother. She spent years trying to run interference when it became obvious my mother would sic him on me. We were "a lot alike" and made it clear for that I deserved punishment constantly.  I hated her for it.

I never could understand why those TV characters did not suffer the same things I did at my house. No one acted like they did at my house.  Why was it so different for them and why are they "happy" all the time, even when they were in "trouble"?  Made no sense to me and only served to cement that I was not deserving of that kind of life.  I was not loved in that way, if at all by them.

At 5 years old my mother was unfaithful to my father with the young (19) son of a family friends, who was also a "babysitter" for us children and molested my sister and I during that time. Although we were not so versed on exactly what that meant, it was clear we were able to see she did not give my father "that" kind of attention or do "those" things to him.  My father was not as unaware as we always thought either. We would come to know violence at his hand early on and it would take up residence in our already unstable home.  It would be decades before I came to realize that his violence towards us ironically manifested from a constant and real fear of her taking us away from him, never to be seen again. My mother threatened him of that on a regular basis.  She was a masterful manipulator way back then.  I kept the molesting secret, Bunny (the son) told me to and my mother was not someone you told your secrets to ever, you would be punished for having any.  Funny what you hold onto.

My dad for all intents and purposes was not a "bad" man. It is only while looking back and re-examining these issues during therapy many years later than I could see or admit that.  As a child I thought he was evil, period. Truth is he was a hard working, funny and caring man who loved his children and worked hard everyday to provide for us. One who was insidiously and slowly poisoned emotionally,  turned to stone by her dastardly deeds and threats. No doubt in my mind now, she literally drove him mad.  No doubt in my mind now, he loved her in spite of it all.

My mother joined the what my dad called "the country club set" when I was around 8. She had been a stay at home "mom" up to that point. My father provided her with a very good railroad income but she had other desires and wants and saw working outside as a way to get them I suppose. Truth is, it was her "legitimate" way out of the responsibility of mother to her five children she had borne only to hold onto him but,  did not want after we were here. She forced that role to be assumed by my older sister, the oldest of us all but only two years older than myself.  My mother grew more and more distant, hateful that we would still "bother" her, needed her, wanted to be in her space.  She was always pushing us away, setting us aside and even later asking we not come around her at all. I had never known her to be loving, soothing or caring in any way.  The only time she would tell us she loved us was first only as a group, no personal adoration was ever shown, and only during her maniacal moments trying to convince us dad was the evil one.  She used everyone of her children to contain and store the poison she used to turn us against him, turn him against us and force us to chose sides and manifest a fear of him.  That just made him more angry and more violent.

This same year I remember the arguments were pretty brutal. He had begun to drink regularly. She would seize the opportunity to work on him psychologically.  It was a cat and mouse game to her. 

One particular day, they had been separated for a week or so at her choosing. He came to pick us up for a daddy day. We had on these beautiful pink and white satin dresses that had twirling skirts. We loved those!  Before that day would finish though we would find ourselves locked in the bathroom, crying and scared because we could hear the escalating violence in the kitchen after she told him he would not be spending the day with us after all.  My dad picked up a radio and lobbed in the direction of my mother just as we peeked out. It did not hit her but slammed into the linoleum floor causing a huge gash. Making a constant reminder of the incident for us to see forever was the only immediate damage. I can never recall however, not thinking of that incident when I saw that scar.  To this day it remains as fresh as if it were only yesterday. We did not know that the violence would became a constant in our lives from that point forward and only escalate to life threatening later on.

My mother withdrew more and more as years flew by. Teased my dad with her tales of the men who desired her, wanted her, that she was stupid for not pursuing "it".  Though she was rarely at home now, mom never missed a chance to plunge that knife in forcefully then offer to lick the wounds later.  A constant contradiction in terms that woman.  Although my mother's actions were basically predictable my father's were not.

One afternoon during another horrible fight of theirs, I was told to go get clothes off the clothesline.  I went out and gathered them and there was a jacket of my father's on a hanger. While holding that out to the side to keep from wrinkling or dragging it on the ground, my little tiny dog Mitzy jumped up to play and caught the sleeve with her tooth causing a very tiny four corner tear.  I can still recall the immediate fear now having to tell my dad what had happened.  I could have pretended it did not happen or that I knew nothing about it. That would most certainly save me from a beating I knew was going to probably get, I told him anyway.  The next thing I recall is watching my dad beat my dog to death with a broom while I stood there screaming for her life.  They both walked away and allowed her to die without help.  I was still only 8 years old.  I spent years unable to forget, hearing my dog wail for hours in my head. Unable to understand then, I am now sure that was the incident that dealt the final blow to my little psyche and completely broke my spirit. I loved that dog!  How can someone who "loves" you do such a thing to something you love?

By age 12, I was suicidal myself. I had one attempt after another and mental health  unit evals for a great deal of my pre-pubescent years. I "was crazy" according to her and now becoming even more burdensome seemingly no longer under her "control".   That only served to give her reason to withdraw more.  I was an embarrassment to her and that also angered my dad.

By the time I reached Jr high school,  it all had was coming to a head.  In the 7th grade my mother for the 20th or so time had decided she would leave and take us with her.  On this day she had an appointment with an attorney to file for divorce. She had done this many times only to change her mind and go on as if it hadn't ever happened.  We were constantly confused, scared and insecure. We clung in the safety of each others company as if we were abandoned little litter-mates.  There could only be so much help from the outside. NO ONE knew what was really going on in our house. It was not allowed.  We were isolated from friends as we never knew what would happen if we brought them to our house.  We knew,  it was not safe there.

It was one week before Christmas that year when she saw the attorney.  She must have told him what she was doing because he started drinking early and hard. He bought a case of beer put it on his bed, loaded his shotguns and placed locks on all the outside gates to keep anyone from coming in the yard. He then brought large containers of gas into the living-room and laid some flares beside them. The smell was horrible!  I recall him standing at the bedroom window facing the street and waiting.  My sister was 10 and I realized later, much more aware of what was going on. She bailed out a window and ran to a neighbor for help who called the Sheriff. Within minutes, our house was surrounded by police, everywhere!  They all had shotguns aimed at our house and was telling him to come out with his hands up over a loudspeaker.  I remember clearly at that time I was as embarrassed as I would finally be scared.  All of our friends had gathered outside on our street and were watching this unfold. How would I ever live this down now?  Then it became clear the real danger of our situation.  Dad was drunk, angry, feeling defeated and threatened. "I will kill her when she shows up and kill all of us too."  The house is locked and darkened, the gates prevent an unseen escape attempt and it was the day we would die, thanks to her.

Fortunately, in a moment of clarity my dad told my sister he was "giving up" and walked outside to open the gates.  I can not recall what happened then for a few more days, blocked I suppose.  The day before Christmas, my mother had visited my dad in the mental health unit where my family seemed to have private rooms held for our bad behaviors.  My dad and myself were admitted by my mother on several occasions, it became "normal" for us to go there. I recall she lined us up in front of the Christmas tree and told us kids "your dad wants to come home but it will be your choice."  What a responsibility for a child, who wants daddy home but is not wise to what that option would actually mean for us.  Of course we wanted him home. Worst choice I have made all of my life I will say.  This incident took away any possibility for a truly merry Christmas for all of my life.  Though I have tried to pretend for all the years my nieces and nephews were young and around..seemed something always lingered from way back then.  Sadly, it still does. 

It turned out later that Christmas is when I would receive this diagnosis many years later.  Was this God's way of finally releasing me from that painfully torturous memory so long ago, buy giving me something else to remember the day by? 

Funny what you hold onto.